


Help Me Help You

by Arrestzelle



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Herzeleid Era, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 12:03:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16618622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: When Schneider returns to the hotel room following a concert, he can tell something's wrong. He does his best to comfort you.





	Help Me Help You

**Author's Note:**

> This is a third place giveaway prize for @smollestghost on Tumblr!! Sorry for the wait ;o; ♡

The poisonous feelings of inferiority and disgust are squeezing in a vice around your insides. You feel like you weigh thrice as much, a drag down on your body, a mental weight that you cannot shake. You feel closed in, trapped, desperate for an escape from these feelings. The walls seem to close in on you, around your heart, squeezing and squeezing, until you find you can’t breathe. You need an anchor. A way to emerge from the anxiety that is gripping you entirely, so completely. You’re not sure what to do. Distraction helps, but somehow, you can’t find yourself moving from the bed.

You stare at the ceiling, your distressed thoughts running around and around in a whirlwind of well-hidden panic and discomfort. You feel like you’re being crushed. You hate this. You hate when this happens.

You don’t know how long you lay there, feeling utterly and completely paralyzed. Unseen hands squeeze unrelentingly around your throat. You can’t speak, you can’t breathe.

You hear the tell-tale sound of someone unlocking the hotel door, with a snap-click of the keycard, followed by the turning of the handle. Your anxiety spikes. You raise up onto your elbows, watch the door expectantly. The door swings open, and Schneider comes pacing in, looking especially frustrated and especially handsome. His dark hair, cut short, is a little haphazard, as if he ran his hands through it and forgot to fix it. You admire him, gazing at his sharp, oddly beautiful features as he goes about kicking off his shoes, dropping his bag onto the ground by the dresser. He has a lovely profile, you think to yourself. He’s wearing a short-sleeved button up and track pants.

“Hey, there,” you greet, somehow finding your voice. His piercing blue eyes flick up to land on you. A faint twitch of a smile appears on his pretty lips. It was utterly forced and ingenuine. He looks suddenly exhausted.

“Yeah, same,” you say, dryly. Now that evokes a more genuine huff of a laugh. He rakes his fingers up through his hair and then approaches the bed. He takes a noticeably squeaky seat on the foot of it, looks back at you with a cocked brow. His back is broad and you want to reach out and touch it. He clears his throat and speaks.

“How long have you been waiting for me?”

His English is roughly accented, and it’s endearing. You shrug lazily. You lay back down against the pillows, cross your arms together atop your midsection.

“I wasn’t necessarily waiting for you.”

“Then what have you been waiting for?”

You stare up at the ceiling, ignoring the toxic anxiety and self-hatred that is still picking at your insides. You shrug. Normally you would produce some teasing, stupid quip to a question like that, but your thought process and mental state aren’t quite flexible enough for that at the moment.

“Nothing,” you say. “I’ve just been enjoying the fruits of life. By laying here. On your hotel bed. Alone. Doing nothing.”

A moment of silence passes. His lack of a response concerns you; you lift your head to look at him. He’s watching you closely, his lips in a line, brow knit.

“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly. You’re momentarily irritated at yourself. He’s obviously having a bad day himself, he shouldn’t have to deal with your bullshit too. You contemplate what to do, what to say. Perhaps get up and act a little more fucking lively so you don’t drag him down with you, make it seem like you’re just fine and dandy. Or maybe be honest. Because he asked. Because he cares. Additionally, you know he would get frustrated if you pretended everything’s fine, if you refused to tell him, because he’s stubborn and if his mind is set on something, like making you feel better, he’ll insist on doing it. He’ll even create a problem, just so he can fix it. He’s weird like that.

“I looked in the mirror,” you say, flatly. “That’s what’s wrong.”

Silence reclaims the room. You raise a hand to press it to your face, rubbing it down with a sigh. You feel stupidly dramatic and childish for saying such a thing. The momentary silence lingers, until Schneider turns to face you a little more with the shift of the bed. You look at him again, tiredly. He searches your face and speaks quietly, albeit firmly.

“I don’t see the problem. Your reflection is a beautiful thing.”

“You can say that easily.”

“And does it mean anything?”

“It can. But this time it doesn’t.”

He presses his lips together, looks at you a little helplessly. You look away, speaking lowly, “It’s okay. It’ll pass. Don’t worry about it, Christoph.”

“But I will. I don’t want you feeling… Sad.”

His pause to search for a word has you smiling faintly. He’s endearing, even when he doesn’t try.

“It’s better now that you’re here,” you say honestly, but before he could respond, you continue, “Tell me about your day. I want to hear about it.”

A moment of silence, of contemplation, no doubt. You know you confuse him sometimes. It’s fun. You really can’t help yourself. After all, you do want to feel better, and toying with him light-heartedly is effective. He lets out a deep exhale and speaks slowly, searching for words.

“We played the show, of course. You were there. Many, uh, mistakes were made by the technicians there, as you know. Till got angry, and it seemed to have spread. Frustration is easily spread around us, sometimes. Especially when Paul isn’t in the mood to try and calm down Till. Sometimes he does get angry himself, too, though. Mostly when the problem isn’t fixed. And then he tries to fix it himself, and when he can’t fix it, he gets angrier. That’s how today went. And I got frustrated that they were frustrated. We went out to get food, but no one was talking. It was tense. I left early to come here, because I knew you were waiting, after the concert.”

You were there in the sidelines, watching—you do recall the mistakes with the audio, with the mics. Till throwing things. The others had played around on their instruments to provide some form of distraction while Paul ran off to try and handle things. Till was just fuming. You’ve never seen such a major fuck up by a crew before tonight, with Rammstein.

“I’m sorry that it turned out that way,” you say quietly. He nods. You continue, saying, “But it was a great show. You guys always have such energy, you know. It’s not about perfection, it’s about the energy, the fun of it.”

“Not always,” Schneider remarks, looking down at the gaudy bedsheets, “Perfection is how we do things. When there is perfection, there is fun.”

You say nothing. He looks at you again. He seems eager to move onto a different topic.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks. You smile faintly. He’s cute. You pause to consider his question. Is there anything he can do? To rectify your fluctuating self-esteem? Not really. He does make you feel wanted, to some degree, which does help. His attraction towards you. Which is appalling in itself. He’s much more beautiful than you ever could be (though you are merely convincing yourself this; he thinks the same of you). Looking at him now, seeing how he cares, how he wants you to be happy, is sobering enough in itself. You smile at him, faintly.

“You can come over here,” you say. He blinks, and then huffs a slight laugh. He nods and leans over to take off his shoes before turning and climbing onto the bed. Seeing his muscular, albeit slender, body crawling towards you is a bit flustering, and it has you grinning coyly. He’s so handsome. He flops down beside you on the bed and brings an arm around your shoulders. His broad hand curls around your bicep, squeezing tightly. You feel heat bloom in your face.

“I may fall asleep,” he says tiredly, and then rests his head on your shoulder—at an awkward angle. You smile and reach over to pat him on the hand, resting atop his thigh.

“But you haven’t kissed me yet,” you tease, though without meaning it. He lifts his head and looks at you; you return the glance with a cocked brow. He smiles faintly.

“Well, all you had to do was ask,” he teases. He begins to lean in. A heat blooms in your face. You watch his handsome face as he closes the distance to kiss you with a slight angling of his head. You close your eyes and bring a hand up to rest your curled fingers under his chin, an intimate touch as your lips press together. He smells like his cologne he sprayed on, at last minute. Gently and lovingly, you kiss with a back and forth pursing of your lips that makes you feel warm, more at _home_ in a strange way. Schneider is a comfort. He can be stubborn, opinionated, but he cares about you, he wants you to be happy, ultimately. His touch, his kiss—you couldn’t ask for anything more. You feel content, if only for this moment.

When you separate, Schneider looks at you warmly with loving eyes and a faint smile. You stroke a thumb across his jaw, searching his face. Schneider takes your hand, kisses it, and then says lowly, “I know of a medicine that cures sadness.”

“What, Prozac?”

That has him huffing a laugh. He shakes his head. Then he rises from the bed, keeping that grasp on your hand. You willingly, albeit sluggishly, move to follow him. You stand beside him and look up at him expectantly. He winds his other arm around you, settling his hand in the small of your back. It has a blush erupting in your face. Such an intimate, yet simple touch. He readjusts his hold on your hand and then begins to hum some orchestral-sounding melody as he moves you; you blindly follow, realizing what he’s up to. He leads you in winding circles, long, slow spins. Somehow, you find the pace, eyes downcast to watch your feet move along with his, and once you become familiar with the stepping, you look up at him and smile. He’s smiling himself, continuing to hum this song that he knows, but you do not.

“Well, you weren’t wrong,” you say, and then laugh. The smile on his face spreads into a grin, momentarily interrupting his humming. Then he readjusts his hands on you, pulls you closer to himself. This has you stumbling a little, but he catches your weight easily, holding you soundly in his arms. Your blush is only intensifying. You regain your composure and look up at him again. Now he has you close to himself. He watches you, slowing the dance to something more subdued and slow. His humming has gone quieter, before dissipating away. He smiles at you.

“It’s not quite the same without a CD player,” Schneider muses quietly. You laugh and squeeze his hand. You run your other hand up over his broad back, looking up at him with amorous eyes.

“Doesn’t matter. Your singing was just as nice.”

The slightly awkward, flustered look that flickers across his face has you grinning. He clears his throat and then begins to hum again. He sways you around, continuing to hold your hand almost delicately in his, broad fingers clutching you tenderly. Having his hands upon you always flusters you. You love it when he touches you like this. Affectionately, without lust. You thrive on his love, in no matter what form it comes.

“You know, Christoph,” you begin quietly, interrupting his humming and prompting a raise of a brow. He continues gently dancing with you. With a sly smile pulling at your lips, you whisper, “I could use another kiss.”

Schneider’s pretty blue eyes become amused. He nods.

A grin toys at your mouth, but you manage to repress it, watching him lean in with his gaze searching in yours. Then he angles his head and gingerly kisses you, a loving purse of his mouth to yours. The warmth and tenderness within the sharing of your lips consumes you. Your mouths softly overlap together, a back and forth pursing that has an unimaginable contentment blooming in your chest. As Schneider kisses you, his hand clutching yours intimately, the other resting comfortably on the small of your back, you forget that you were ever upset at all.

**Author's Note:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


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